


Legacy of Imperialism (ASOIAF/Warcraft)

by Ebanu8



Series: Legacy of Imperialism World [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Anal Sex, Breeding, Children of the Forest, Dorne, Dwarves, Elia Martell Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Futanari, Giants, Gnolls, Half-Elves, Harpies, House Martell, Imperialism, Impregnation, Independent North (ASoIaF), Kobolds, Old Gods, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Magic, Smart Starks (ASoIaF), Targaryen Babies, Theon Greyjoy Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebanu8/pseuds/Ebanu8
Summary: When mysterious circumstances send men and women of different races and cultures to Westeros, the course of its history is forever altered. Elves, Dwarves and Harpies land in the North, and Gnolls, Kobolds and Murlocs land in Dorne. Little did they know this would lead to the two nations rising to heights of power unprecedented in history, ushering in a new age of discovery and exploration, progression and most of all, war.Follow the histories of the two nations as they weather everything the world throws at them, from the coming of the White Walkers to Aegon's Conquest, and the advent of the Shadow itself, all the while enduring games of politics and sex.
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Tyrion Lannister/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Legacy of Imperialism World [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084202
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Light shines in the North

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, decided to do an ASOIAF crossover with Warcraft here on AO3, since this muse of mine would stubbornly refuse to die down. Hope you like it! Posting it on AH.com and Spacebattles as well.
> 
> Do note that this is not necessarily a Stark-centric fic, and it will be focused on both the North and Dorne as they cover the entirety of the world itself. Here on AO3, there will be much smut and breeding, especially between different races. Also note that there will be plenty of words in other languages, including Irish Gaelic (which I have no proficiency in), so if there's word you can improve, go ahead and say so, but within reasonable conduct.
> 
> And that's all! Now on with the journey!

The North. A land of bitter cold, where only the hardiest of life thrives in its cold blizzards and winters and where the weak are automatically culled like weeds. A land mostly isolated from the Andallic Southern Kingdoms of Westeros, home to the descendants of the First Men – a people that dwelled on the continent millennia before the coming of the Andals from the East.

For millennia, they have fought against the Andallic invasions, always managing to repel their crusades at every turn. For millennia, their realm was underdeveloped, lacking the rich mines of the Lannisters and the fertile, lush fields of other Southerner Kingdoms.

For millennia, they lacked a strong fleet from which to patrol the seas, one the Ironborn to the southwest and the other Andallic Kingdoms possessed.

Then all of it changed with the shining of a bright light not far from the city of Winterfell.

IIOII

Fanodor Solarlight, of Silvermoon’s Druidic Circles, was once again leading troops against the meddlesome Amani Trolls that dared attack their fair lands. Time and again, the Trolls struck, only for the Elves to repulse them, and did not give up.

“Honestly, if these Trolls would just leave us be for one year,” Fanodor muttered, “I’d rather be peacefully helping the Kingdom than having to help fight a war.”

He looked at the assembled Elven troops, primarily comprised of Rangers, swordsmen and mobile cavalry all more professionally trained and disciplined than the unorganised mobs the Trolls counted as armies, and shook his head.

And just then, the Trolls attacked once again, a futile effort as his troops effortlessly cut them down. Like sheep to the slaughter, the Trolls were slain, but this time they refused to retreat, paying dearly for their defiance with their lives.

“By the Sunwell, why won’t you Trolls just give up?” Said Fanodor.

One of them, bloodied badly and on the verge of death, cackled madly, saying, “Y-You be da big fool, mon. We gladly give our lives for Zul’aman, for da Loa!”

He took out a runic stone, and Fanodor recognised it as Elven make. Before he could think or say anything else, though, it pulsed with Voodoo magic, and Fanodor’s eyes widened in alarm.

“See you in hell, Elf!” The Troll cried.

Then Fanodor’s world was bathed in light.

IIOII

Thonvahge Bronzerock, a Dwarven mage from Dalaran, led troops in one of many clashes against the Dwarves’ ancestral enemy, the Troggs. Deformed and lacking intelligence save for an eternal hatred against the Dwarves, they had fought them for time immemorial since the founding of Khaz Modan.

“Hold fast, men!” She shouted, “Smash them apart and drive them back!”

“Hoo-ah!”

But the Dwarves were made of sterner stuff, and they would resist the Troggs for millennia more.

The caverns themselves were wide and deep, and were capable of accommodating Gryphon Riders deep within, and their allies, the Wildhammers, easily smashed them aside with their Storm Hammers and gryphon talons tearing them apart.

Her aide, the Wildhammer Captain Bhagarn Slowpass, effortlessly coordinated the strafing runs to cause maximum damage, being a veteran of many battles himself. Soon enough, the Troggs retreated, and he returned to Thonvahge’s side.

“It is a great day, Commander!” Bhagarn exclaimed, “We claimed Trogg heads, drove back those fiends and even reclaimed some lost caverns!”

“Aye, that it is, my friend,” Said Thonvahge, “I just hope the alliance preserves.”

“You’re not the only one hoping, Commander,” Said Bhagarn, “But alas, such are the feuds between the three Clans.”

“Commander! Captain! We’ve found something inside one of the caverns!” A soldier reported.

What they found was a massive object of unknown origin, titanic in size and thrumming with power. Resembling an amalgamation of different mechanical parts and gears mixed with strange magical items, it was the definition of an alien artefact. Though it looked like it lay dormant for a long time, no one knew for sure if it was working again.

“Alright, no one touch the artefact,” Thonvahge commanded, “No telling if it’s a trap or something sinister.”

A loud clunk registered in their ears, and all turned to face a lone soldier who foolishly pulled one of the levers.

“What in Titans’ name did I say!?” Thonvahge shouted.

The machine came to life with loud creaking and cranking, and a bright circle of light illuminated the dark caverns. All the Dwarves scrambled to respond, but were fumbling like drunken idiots. And soon, light consumed their world.

None of the Dwarves would be left inside the cavern, once the machine’s thrums died down.

IIOII

Two circles of light illuminated the snow-blanketed landscape, depositing armies of two different races and cultures with little in common. As the light faded, the Elves and Dwarves came face-to-face with each other, and a barrage of queries and questions were exchanged between the two groups, each trying to get answers to a myriad of questions that arose in their heads.

“How did you get here?”

“What’s going on?”

“Where are we?”

“It’s so damn cold!”

“Why did we end up here from there!?”

Both Fanodor and Thonvahge were able to restore order, the two of them quickly exchanging greetings and words.

“I’m Fanodor Solarlight, Commander of the 10th Regiment of Quel’thalas’ Royal Army and of the Druidic Circles of Silvermoon,” Said Fanodor.

“And I’m Thonvahge Bronzerock, Commander of the 8th Regiment of the Royal Armies of Ironforge,” Said Thonvahge, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got plenty of questions about our current predicament, but I think we better get some shelter first; I’m freezing here!”

Then, there was the sound of thundering hooves, and a party of Humans dressed in Winter clothing came into view, bearing the grey banners of a direwolf.

At the front rode a single man, more authoritative and dignified than the others, and began to say, “I am King Eyan Stark, Fifth of my name and King of Winterfell and the North, Protector of the First Men. To whom do I speak?”


	2. Light shines in the Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support guys. 😊

Dorne, a land of hot, barren deserts and little oases and rivers of fresh water, just as unforgiving on its people as the frigid North is. Its people are fiercely independent, resisting any form of conquest or assimilation into other Kingdoms.

For centuries, its people have fought its neighbours over control of the Marshes beyond the Red Mountains, and many look down upon the Dornish for their lack of a truly thriving civilisation despite their technology and hardiness of its people.

But there is nothing in the world that does not change, and just as light shines in the North, so too does it shine in Dorne.

That light would shine just outside Sunspear, capital of House Martell.

IIOII

Chieftain Burtad Ashnose, of the Gogtokk tribe, sighed heavily as he trod at the head of the convoy, as many as a thousand Gnolls trekking behind him and pulling wagons laden with supplies and their belongings.

With their old home now too dangerous, he made the hard decision of declaring a migration elsewhere.

Riding up to him was Supreme Warden Onrurh, the woman noticeably fatigued from travel.

“Chieftain, how much farther to our destination?” Onrurh questioned, “I admit that the Hillsbrad Foothills are lush and fertile, but we cannot continue for much longer, and hunting and foraging can only sustain us for so long.”

“I know, but we will not have to worry for shelter much longer,” Said Burtad, “We can take shelter in one of the nearby forests, and that will shield us from the eyes of prying patrols. We will be safe there for a while.”

“I hope so,” Said Onrurh, “But I think we’re starting to get a little tired. Shouldn’t we take a rest?”

Looking at the convoy, Burtad nodded and said, “Tell the tribe we’re taking a short break.”

The tribesmen exhale sighs of relief as they rest their aching legs, taking hasty gulps of water and eating meagre meals of dried tack and meat.

“Bah, to think we have to endure so much persecution, all because we’re not Human,” Said Onrurh.

“It won’t remain this way, Onrurh. I know it,” Said Burtad.

“I hope so,” Said Onrurh, “Gu’rathul knows how many we’ve lost over the years.”

A bright circle of light suddenly materialised beneath the resting Gnolls, and all panicked at this sudden development as they grabbed weapons or staves or gathered their panicking children.

“What’s going on!?” Shouted Burtad.

“I don’t know, but I can’t counteract this magic!” Shouted Onrurh.

Then all were engulfed in a bright flash of magic, and everything was still.

Human patrols who later investigated the area reported only a bright scorch mark where the light originated from, but nothing else.

IIOII

Cyegga Bronzedigger, of the Fovlugg tribe, was one of hundreds of Kobolds struggling in their everyday existence as dwellers of the deep. Each day is nothing but a drudgery of digging, mining, fighting enemies and keeping candles lit to fend off the ever-encroaching darkness.

She, as a strong Champion, was considerably skilled with her pickaxe, forged from strong steel and enchanted by the Geomancers, and it was thanks to her that the Fovlugg were able to survive many attacks.

But Cyegga did not like it at all; she hated the fact that nothing changed for the Kobolds – for her tribe. She wanted things to change; she wanted her people to not like this, but living peaceful lives instead, in a secure and stable home where none had to fear encroaching enemies or fading light.

“Blasted sludges,” Said Cyegga, “Zruras no understand they only come back; so what if they defeated? Unless we kill at source, we know no peace.”

“Careful Zruras or others not hear you,” Said her aide, Crun, “They no like anyone challenging them.”

“Bah, ancestors will reel in their graves over his cowardice,” Said Cyegga, “Better we do something than just wait around and defend.”

“Many Kobolds feel the same, but Crun asks you wait,” Said Crun, “But Zruras’ men have eyes and ears, and they constantly keep us divided. Only when we gather strength can Zruras and his men die, and you take over as next Taskmaster.”

Cyegga grunted, but held her tongue.

Then a bright circle of light engulfed the entire tribe and their world was engulfed in light, and none of the Fovlugg tribe remained where the circle covered.

IIOII

His name was Dorgll, of the Slgles tribe that dwelt in the waters of what would be the Westfall region. For years, his tribe eked out a living fishing the waters and occasionally raiding Human caravans, bringing back food and supplies.

“This is a great haul!” Cried one of his comrades, “The tribe will be fed for weeks!”

“Nah, I think it can’t compare to the fresh fish we catch,” Said another.

But there were times when those raids were a failure, when Human patrols and troops would intercept their raids and mercilessly slaughter them, leaving them nothing but dead bodies to report for their failure.

Their Chieftain was no one horrible, merely one doing the same things as Murlocs always have done.

But Dorgll was not content with his lot in life. He never was.

“We Murlocs can be more,” He said to himself, “But if we remain like this, nothing will change.”

Then the same magical circle engulfed the tribe and they vanished into thin air.

IIOII

When the bright flashes of light appeared outside of Sunspear, many citizens and soldiers were understandably frightened beyond measure, some panicking that demons and other things may be prowling on their doorstep.

The Ruling Princess of Sunspear, Emberlei Martell, was quick to order, “Send in our troops to investigate this disturbance, but do not recklessly engage whoever or whatever is there!”

The cavalry of Sunspear swiftly depart from the city, led by Captain Vorian, and they reach the coastline where the light was reported.

They stop short of the two groups of strange creatures facing each other in a tense standoff, both sides uneasily gripping weapons and staring at each other like predators ready to pounce on the other.

Vorian, however, would not let this happen on his watch; he loudly called out to the two parties, saying, “I am Captain Vorian, of the soldiers in service to House Martell of Sunspear. To whom do I speak?”


	3. Planting Roots in Snow, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This series of chapters will be focused on the North for a while. Will move on to Dorne after this arc. And I’m so sorry for delaying so much, but studies have been making me lose steam over these past few days.
> 
> Edit: Had to make a few changes here and there, due to mistakes.

The City of Winterfell was nothing compared to the grander cities of Quel’thalas, Ironforge or Lordaeron, among others in terms of size or prosperity. As of now, it housed barely over fourty thousand souls, and trade was primarily agrarian-oriented with some weapons or tools exchanged, and the occasional travelling merchant would come and hawk his exotic wares for the people to buy.

Its defences, however, were a work of art; the towers were mighty and strong, capable of housing mangonels and ballistae and dozens to a hundred archers. Magi could easily use the tops as locations for ritual circles to envelop the castle in a protective barrier, shielding all in its embrace. The walls, too, were strong and sturdy, built by the finest Human artisans.

Yet it was also a half-wreck as the Elves and Dwarves soon learned; many sections lay half-ruined and derelict and needing immediate repairs, and the caverns underneath were in a similar state, and some were caved in.

Enclosed within its walls was a small Godswood, housing the oldest-known Weirwood Tree on all of Westeros. Many of the Otherworlders would report a strange presence watching them, as if a pair of eyes was watching them always.

IIOII

When the Elves and Dwarves first met King Eyan Stark and his entourage, there was a noticeable language barrier that the Elves found hard to breach. They only ever spoke Thalassian or Arathorian (Warcraft Common, fyi) and so, had to leave it to the Dwarves, who recognised it as a dialect of Dumruzil (Warcraft Dwarven).

In fact, it was known as Arun-Dumruzil – the tongue practiced primarily by the Wildhammers, and so Captain Bhagarn Slowpass was the one acting as interpreter, having exchanged quick words with both Thonvahge and Fanodor.

“Hail, King Eyan Stark!” Said the Captain, “I am Captain Bhagarn Slowpass of the 4th Gryphon Riders Corps of Aerie Peak! With me are Commanders Thonvahge Bronzerock of the 8th Regiment of the Royal Armies of Ironforge and Fanodor Silverlight of the 10th Regiment of the Royal Armies of Quel’thalas, of the Druidic Circles of Silvermoon!”

“Silvermoon? Ironforge? What in the name of the Old Gods are those places?” Said Eyan, “They certainly aren’t any familiar places anywhere in the North.”

One of Bhagarn’s men acted as translator, speaking in Arathorian to the others. At this, many of the Elves and Dwarves quickly cast questioning, worried glances at both Eyan Stark’s party and each other at the mention of Old Gods, and many hushed whispers were exchanged in their native tongues.

To his credit, Bhagarn maintains a stoical façade, saying, “Neither have we heard of this Winterfell, Noble King. Might we have some place to rest for the night?”

Looking at the shivering masses of Elves and Dwarves, Eyan Stark nods, saying, “Very well, we shall talk more in the Keep. Men! Get these poor sods some warm clothes and cloaks! We’re returning to Winterfell!”

His men chorused in agreement.

When Bhagarn returned, Thonvahge and Fanodor were quick to huddle with him, the Elf Druid saying, “Are you honestly taking their offer? They mentioned Old Gods! What if they follow some evil abominations of dark beings that will devour us the moment we lower our guard?”

“Do we have much of a choice?” Bhagarn said, “We are isolated in a foreign land with no allies to call upon, and they are the closest source of civilisation we have right now. Do you really want to risk their lives on suspicion alone?”

“But for all we know, they might be our enemies in disguise!” Fanodor hotly retorted.

“And it is a gamble we must make, Fanodor,” Said Thonvahge, “Bhagarn made the right decision, so can I ask that you trust it for now?”

Some among their ranks grumbled in discontent and uncertainty, but they held their tongues and silently nodded.

IIOII

It took a lengthy explanation and exchange of words between the Wildhammer contingent and the Northern host, but eventually, the misunderstandings between them were cleared; the Old Gods of Azeroth and those of the North were fundamentally different.

Where the Azerothian Old Gods were abominations and amalgamations of the absolute worst of evil and darkness of the universe, the Old Gods of the North were spirits of the Forest, embodying the primal aspects of nature itself. Where the former wished to taint, corrupt and control everything they touched and encountered, the latter demanded very little from their followers, taking a rather hands-off approach with their flock.

Many breathed a sigh of relief at that, though the similar naming was considered by many to be a problem.

“But we do have the problem of similar names causing similar misunderstandings as well,” Said Fanodor, “And truthfully, I believe it important to rectify it here and now.”

“I am of the same belief as you, Fanodor,” Said Eyan, “And I believe the simplest way to do so is by differentiation of names.”

“I always love it when solutions are simple,” Said Thonvahge, “So, what shall we call the Old Gods of the North?”

Fanodor stroked his chin thoughtfully, before asking, “The Old Gods of the Forest embody nature itself, do they not?”

“Indeed, Fanodor,” Said Eyan, “They are a pantheon of innumerable and unnamed spirits of nature, always watching around us. They exist in each rock, stream and tree, never far from any of us.”

“Then how about… the Cianaosta?” Said Bhagarn, “I believe in your Old Tongue, it means ‘Primal Gods’.”

“Cianaosta… a fitting name,” Said Eyan, “That aside, however, what are your plans here? You said that you suddenly appeared due to circumstances, so might I ask if you know how to go back?”

Bhagarn exchanged words with the Elven contingent, and after some deliberation and flashing lights in their hands, Fanodor shook his head with great reluctance.

“Blast…” Bhagarn said, “Well, King Eyan Stark, it seems we must impose upon your hospitality and that of the North itself; we cannot go back.”

“Is that so?” Said Eyan, “Know that the North is a cold, inhospitable land, however; not to mean any offense, but seeing you and your companions, I can already tell you’re unused to such cold weather.”

“No kidding,” Said Bhagarn, shivering greatly, “Even the cold peaks of Alterac don’t compare to this.”

“However,” Said Eyan, “I am not running a charity; I fully expect all of you to pull your own weight for the North’s benefit in exchange, and nothing less.”

“We understand, King Eyan,” Said Bhagarn, “But where do we live?”

“Why, in Winterfell, of course,” Said Eyan, “Or to be more specific, Wintertown beneath the Keep.”

IIOII

The so-called Wintertown was a great disappointment as compared with the grandeur of Winterfell itself; much of the town was abandoned, and most of the houses were more shacks and cottages than proper stone houses one would expect in a capital city. Its inhabitants wore primarily leather jerkins and breeches, all functionality and no decoration.

It smelt of pine and cones, but it was perhaps the only pleasant thing about Wintertown itself.

“Is Wintertown always like this?” Fanodor questioned, a Wildhammer Dwarf acting as interpreter.

“It is,” Said Eyan, “I can tell you’re not impressed by it, you know.”

Fanodor nodded at this wordlessly.

“Truth be told, this has been the case for millennia,” Said Eyan, “Of all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the North has always been ridiculed as the second poorest and weakest state despite being the largest, and with good reason; the Westerlands have their great deposits of gold to mine, the Reach has its fertile lands for agriculture, Dorne with its spices, and the Stormlands with its navy, the other Kingdoms can easily field and supply larger armies over longer distances. In comparison, we have large tracts of unclaimed land, agriculture is difficult, and we have no mineral wealth to exploit.”

“So essentially, your manpower and economy are severely lacking,” Said Fanodor, “Hence, you wish to make use of our talents to make the North into a true powerhouse.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Said Eyan, “Not only that, but I want the Southerner Andals to give us our due; they have ridiculed and mocked us, and I wish to no longer give them reason to do so.”

“Very well,” Said Fanodor, “If that is the case, then we need every piece of information you can give us, starting with the Kingdom’s finances, population census and laws, and any resources currently being exploited.”

“You’ll need to talk with Maester Duncan for that,” Said Eyan, “He’s the one in charge of our finances and other administrative duties.”

Walking through the keep, Fanodor and other administrative-oriented talents went to the library of Winterfell, where they encountered a kindly old man examining piles of books and scrolls on his desk, dimly lit by a single candle.

Looking at the new arrivals, there was puzzlement in his eyes at their strange appearances and clothes, but he gave them the same kindly smile he always wore, saying, “Welcome, guests. Please, make yourself at home.”

The Azerothians felt at ease with him, with Fanodor smiling as he said, “It is our pleasure, Sir…”

“Duncan. Maester Duncan,” Said the Maester.

“I am Fanodor Silverlight, of the 10th Regiment of the Royal Army of Quel’thalas,” Said the Elf, “Pardon me, but might I ask for the castle’s records? Tax records, population numbers and the like.”

“Ah yes, just a moment,” Said Duncan, who deftly sifted through his papers and gave Fanodor and his colleagues a pile of books and scrolls.

“My thanks, Duncan,” Said Fanodor.

“No need to mention it,” Said Duncan, “It’s quite rare for the King to have such strange guests, but any guest of the King is a guest of mine.”

Fanodor found himself smiling in return, Duncan’s gentle, grandfatherly demeanour proving infectiously gladdening.

IIOII

It was over the next few weeks that the bureaucrats poured over the records, cross-referencing older records with newer ones and conducting a population census all across the North with Stark guards accompanying the mages (the poor peasants screaming bloody murder at every portal). With the benefits of arcane magic, the work was done in an exceedingly short amount of time.

In the meantime, the Dwarves were busy prospecting the mountains for any form of mineral deposits, considering that for some odd reason, no Noble House – the Starks included – ever made an attempt to prospect for metals.

The prospecting surveys would return astonishing results; the mountains were home to some of the richest deposits in the entire world, capable of matching or even rivalling the Westerlands’ wealth.

But transportation was a different matter entirely; the North was lacking in proper roads, and not every village, town or city was connected, severely impeding the flow of goods throughout the snowy landscape.

“I knew the North was severely underdeveloped, but this is exceedingly painful to know,” Said Bhagarn, “And we can’t possibly rely on a network of magic portals.”

“Not to mention we do not know about the magical potential of reagents, if there are even any,” Said Thonvahge, “I’ve been asking the Maester and others and sending scrying spells to check, but I’m picking up nothing.”

“A rather magic-less land we live in,” Said Bhagarn, “In any case, before we can even think of grand plans, we have one exceedingly glaring problem to tackle.”

“Food,” Fanodor replied.

“Exactly,” Said Bhagarn, “We need a stable source of cheap food we can mass-produce, and fast. If not, we’ll all be dying of hunger within a few years or so.”

“The Neck might be a suitable place to grow crops,” Said Duncan, “It may be a swampy, boggy place, but if properly tilled and cultivated, we can establish farms to help feed the North.”

“It is a good idea, but I’m also taking about the rest of the North,” Said Bhagarn.

“What he means to say, Maester Duncan, is that we need to be able to grow food in these snow-capped lands somehow,” Said Thonvahge, “Still, what would be a good crop to grow in the Neck?”

“How about rice?” Said Fanodor.

“Rice? What is that?” Asked Duncan.

“A crop suited to growing in harsher conditions, especially boggy and swampy areas,” Said Fanodor, “I was introduced to the crop by a roving band of travellers who were hawking meals for a living. Granted, this is based off my knowledge from what I gleamed from them, but it’s worth a try.”

“But I’ve travelled throughout all of Westeros, and never have I heard of this crop called ‘Rice’,” Said Duncan.

“We’ll just have to find some somehow, or if not, at least find other crops we can grow there,” Said Thonvahge, “By the way, who do we have trade relations with right now?”

“For now, with the Reach and the Riverlands,” Said Duncan, “They’re the primary suppliers of food to the North.”

“Good, we start there,” Said Bhagarn, “What about other nations? From beyond the sea?”

“Well… we Westerosi are a mostly insular lot, I admit,” Said Duncan, “We hardly concern ourselves with other nations beyond the continent. Though we do have tradesmen coming from the lands of Essos, selling goods to the Kingdoms here.”

“That’s no good,” Said Fanodor, “Trade is the means by which we can obtain goods not found in our homeland, and it is vital we have trade relations with this Essos to ensure that.”

“And what of the other Noble Houses?” Asked Bhagarn, “I’m no expert politician, I admit, but I can’t ever think all Houses will automatically support our endeavours.”

“Those opposed to House Stark’s rule are primarily House Bolton,” Said Duncan, “They used to be Kings of their own lands before the Starks defeated and vassalized them. For friendly Houses, on the other hand, Houses Mormont, Reed and Karstark are among the most staunchly loyal and will never turn their backs, as history has proven.”

Fanodor nodded at Duncan’s words, then asked, “There is one more thing to ask though: What is the Conclave of Maesters, exactly? I can tell you deal with many academic subjects, so a scholarly order of sorts?”

“We are,” Said Duncan, “Though… we have been less scholarly and more politically-focused, as of late.”

The sigh of reluctance and disappointment was not lost on anyone, and Thonvahge asked, “Why the long face?”

Duncan sighed again, and said, “The corruption of the Conclave is apparent to any who work inside the Citadel; the high-ranking leaders care less for the preservation and advancement of knowledge and only for their power, and will willingly barter their services in exchange for good coin or influence. There have even been instances of Maesters causing Kings to die from poison, or their children to be miscarried.”

Bhagarn clicks his tongue, scoffing at the notion.

“Bastards, that’s what they are,” Said Bhagarn, “Give me an axe and I’ll gladly cleave them in half anytime.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Said Duncan, “They have their fingers in every nook and cranny in Westeros’ political circles; it won’t be that easy to get rid of them.”

Bhagarn scoffs again, but says nothing more.

“In any case, I believe we all know what to do next, yes?” Said Thonvahge.

“We need only gain the King’s approval, and we can quickly get started,” Said Fanodor, “I, for one, wish to see the sad-looking Wintertown turned into a proper city.”

“No arguments there, Fanodor,” Said Bhagarn.


End file.
